Glass_ 
Book- 


'?8 ^ 1 \ 







OL, ^ 







^ ^. J-x:^.^^^^ 



^^^/ir/Z 






^ 




^^^^ /Z . C^^H.^^^2^ ^'^^^^^ 



-y 



1^ 



'V 




tMt^ Umn i\n Ufasii 




PRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCUIATIOX. 



t OnprviW 



i5o.4...,.n 



PRESS OF 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 

1872. 






lo 



^cdteniicxtt 



TO 

MY LONG TRIED AND FAITHFUL FRIENDS, 
THESE 

''"^^^mt^ lm\[ tint P^^t" 

are offered, in all iliwyi rulhfulness and simplicity: to their charitable 
judgment, to their unfailing friendship, I commit them, in token of 
my faith and trust in them, believing that their criticism will be in that 
beautiful spirit that worketh no ill, and that, cognizant as they are of 
my past Hfe, they will not blame the careful gleaner of flowers in 
the desert, — such as make even the wilderness to smile. 

Mary Rebecca Darby Smith 



(V) 




PREFACE. 




BETTER motive than that of vanity has 
induced me to place collectively in one 
volume many of the kind, and some of 
the beautiful, addresses which from time to time 
have been dedicated to me from the early age of 
fourteen. My nature is reconnaissant, and as one 
does not like even to throw a faded flower away, 
the gift of a friend, so I have generally kept the 
offerings that have been given or sent to me, not 
weighing their poetical merit always, not reading 
them with critical eyes, but as tributes of con- 
sideration, or affection, or wit, I have placed all 
together, and bind them now, 

LEAVES FROM THE PAST, 

on memory's grateful page. I cannot bear all 
should perish. " Yet a few days, and earth, that 
nourished me, shall claim my growth, to be re- 

(vii) 



viii PREFACE. 

solved to earth again;" and though the friends 
that I leave " shall one by one be gathered to my 
side," yet, for them and for their children, I would 
fain have these remembrances of kindly apprecia- 
tion to exist for one whose life of trial and sorrow 
has had but one solace, apart from Heaven and its 
divine teachings and hopes, and that is all that 
emanates from the gentle heart of charitx' and 
love. 

My little volume would have more intrinsic 
value if I were to select only those pieces which 
have genuine poetical merit marked by genius 
and good taste; but as in a bouquet from the 
garden one often finds along with tea-roses and 
rare flowers the simple sweet- alyssum, and the 
modest yet odorous heliotrope, so in this collec- 
tion I place in memoriam the leaves of all hues, 
from the pale and sickly yellow to the brilliant 
and emphatic rouge, and thus grouped, they are 
offered to my friends, in the hope they will ap- 
preciate them, and understand that not ostentation, 
but kindly remembrance, has compelled me to 
make the record I have done. 

Some of the verses have been written to me in 
an interesting album of mine, and such as I have 
thought proper I have extracted from this volume. 



PREFACE, ix 

This accumulation is not meant for the hyper- 
critical and the cold, for the narrow and the cen- 
sorious, but for the eye and heart of friendship or 
good feeling, whose sweet, expansive charity will 
comprehend the grateful feeling with which I link 
these mementos of former days together, — link 
all, the foolish and the wise, the simple and the 
beautiful, — and will believe I see with them often- 
times the extravagance of expression, and can 
smile with them also at much that has been 
written under the influence of that fabulous little 
deity whose blindness is proverbial, and in whose 
name such follies are committed by the pen, the 
tongue, and the act. 

But there are sweet memorials here of tried and 
pure friendship, — these hallow my pages, while 
fancy or wit may adorn them, or fun amuse ; but 
all my leaves, not lost, are gathered here, and some, 
unhappily for me, are lost or mislaid. 

They form to my eye a sad yet pleasing cluster, 
recalling to mind affectionate souvenirs, and inter- 
esting incidents, such as it is pleasant to cherish 
in this working-day world. And now, when I have 
arranged and completed my bouquet of poetic 
leaves, I feel I am almost recreant to duty in not 
introducing some of the eloquent effusions to mc 



X PREFACE. 

that have come from hearts of gentle mould, clad 
in the soberer form of prose. Many of these are 
from the distinguished of the earth, — from the ex- 
alted and the good, — and though not now brought 
forth to the light of day, they are secretly prized, 
and some have the light of Heaven on them, for 
they speak a language the angels might hear, — a 
language of love and sympathy which is not earth- 
born. 

Mary Rebecca Darby Smith. 




AN ACROSTIC, 

Written to me when at Burlington School, New Jersey, and addressed 

"to the belle of the seminary," 

When I was fourteen years of age. 

ARE beauty of so pure a cast 
E'en naught in Eden can surpass; 
Bright as the morning star, thine eye 

Enamors all it passes by. 

Charmer of so lovely face. 

Cease then to sport with the human race. 

A fairer maid or purer mind 

Sure on the globe one ne'er can find ; 

Mild as a lamb, sweet as a rose, 

Innocent as a stream where it softly flows. 

Thence, lady, mayst thou be blest. 



Heaven thy home and eternal thy rest. 



(") 






A SONG. 

The following lines were written and addressed to me also, at 
Burlington School, when I was fourteen years old: 




SAW thee, heard thee, might it be 

That I could see and hear unmoved ? 
It needeth but to look on thee 
To feel that thou must be beloved. 

By day, if sorrows round me teem, 

And heaves my breast with passion riven. 

Be mine the night that brings the dream 
Of thee, and purity, and heaven. 

And often has escaped a sigh. 

As such a thought flew 'cross my mind, 
That thou, sweet maid, wast born to die. 

Or else to some sad doom resigned. 



When first I saw thee, fatal hour ! 

Although I loved thee thus alone, 
Yet Hope dare not then build his bower. 

For fear thy heart was not thy own. 

(12) 



A SONG. 

And when, by chance, my eyes were cast 
Upon thy bosom gently heaving, 

Where cares and sorrows may be clasped. 
They quickly closed, then rose to heaven. 

And often in my bosom fly 

Some thought that I'm beloved by thee ; 
But oftener banished with a sigh, 

That happiness were ne'er for me. 

Oh that a guardian angel's care 

Around thy gentle form be hovering ! 

Oh, could a lover's fervent prayer 

But turn aside the blow that's falling ! 

Oh, blissful hour ! but 'twill ne'er be ; 

Could I such happiness enjoy, 
To pass but that short time with thee, 

Weeks of my life could I destroy. 

Forgive me, lady, were it so, 

Each one himself could well command ; 
But sure thou knowest Cupid's bow 

Is worst of dangers to withstand. 

In any lovely, peaceful dell. 

With thee, sweet maid, I'd gladly dwell. 



V- 




TO REBECCA. 

These simple and kindly lines I appreciate as coming from an hum- 
ble individual who had served in our family in a superior capacity, 
and being a religious woman, and possessing many excellent qualities, 
as a child I regarded her with affection and respect, which she mani- 
fested warmly towards myself Her good wishes, like those of others, 
shall I ask how have they been fulfilled ? 



AY care upon thee lightly fall, 
May happiness be thine ; 
Mayst thou never with regret recall 
Past pleasure and past time ! 




Upon thy fair and noble brow 
ISIay sorrow leave no trace ; 

May health and peace forever glow 
Upon thy lovely face ! 



May afflictions never visit thee ; 

May grief ne'er dim thine eye ; 
May every friend prove true to thee, 

And thy life be bright as summer sky ! 

( 14) 



yl CONFESSION. 

May felicity on thee attend 

Through this life so drear ; 
Mayst thou ne'er forget thy friend, 

To whom thou art so dear ! 

M . . . . P . 



A CONFESSION. 




EBECCA ! often in my sleep 

Thy form all wreathed in smiles appears, 
And softly chides me when I weep, 

With care oppressed, in bitter tears. 
To Angel Hope it points the way. 

And cheers my sad and drooping heart 
With visions bright as fancy's ray. 

Which pluck the sting and heal the smart. 
When full of gratitude and love, 

I bend to thee, my heart's true shrine. 
And seek by constant vows to prove 

That I am worthy to be thine. 
But morning's ray, and reason's course. 

Dispel the fairy-tales I'd wove; 
Those icy barriers, custom's force. 

Bid me despair to win thy love. 



1 6 A CONFESSION. 

Yet will I now invoke thine ear, 

And Venus pray thee so incline, 
That one soft wish from me to hear, 

And that is, — ''Wilt thou, love, be mine?" 
By that kind Saint, whose name will ring 

To-morrow, o'er the festive wine, 
Oh, let me, love, unto thee bring 

This rhyme of thy true valentine ! 



Memory. 



Friday Night, twelve o'clock. 





GOOD WISHES. 

RIGHT be the dreams which cheer thy heart 
And sweet the hopes they bring ; 
May joy ne'er from thy home depart, 
And pleasure leave no sting ! 

May no dark cloud of sorrow cast 

Its shadow o'er thy sky ; 
May life be sweet, while life shall last. 

And friends be ever nigh ! 

Sweet be thy rest in slumber's hours. 

May angel bands attend ; 
And may thy path be strewn with flowers, 

Till life's bright dream shall end ! 



Yes, may thy life glide smoothly on. 
Without one darkening day, 

Till all its cherished hopes have flown, 
Then sweetly pass away ! 



(17) 



AN EPISTLE OF LOVE. 

FROM THE POET TO HIS LADY-LOVE. 

The ensuing lines were received anonymously at Philadelphia, and 
were dedicated as follows : 




IS Sunday ! And most holy is the day ! 

Yet will my thoughts, rebellious, to thee stray ! 

Whilst busy memory shuns the years now past, 
B/ Time's quick flight, to both forever lost ! 
Barren and fruitless were those years gone by, 
Unblest with blossoming Love for you or I ! 
A warning, beauteous maiden, take from this, 
And let our future promise _>'^^;'^ of bliss ! 
Long have I sought thee ! ay, in everything, 
At home, abroad, amid the courtly ring. 
Still as I sought thou fledst from me away. 
Fearful of cares which on thy fancy prey. 
Away, Rebecca ! drive those envious fears, 
For Heaven will smooth the road affection bears, 
And thou wilt find, as surely as you try, 
They're baseless as the cloud in summer sky. 
(i8) 



jjv epistle of love. 19 

Ah ! may I not implore thy tender heart 

To let my Love its trials all impart ? 

Give reign to fancy ! and behold me kneel 

Before thee, warmed by that hope I feel, 

Which bids me speak, in that soft, thrilling tone, 

That Love to Love commends when 'tis alone ! 

Whilst my rapt heart, with joy, with truth, combine, 

Until its fervor shall soon win the shrine, 

Like some pent stream long hid by stony ground, 

Which to the meadow leaps with frolic bound, 

Transported with delight it wends its way 

Where tender greens invite its constant stay. 
* ^ * * * * 

Forgive, dear maid, this bold, impassioned lay, 

For love, long felt, breaks e'en the Sabbath-day. 

In vain my thoughts would seek another theme, 

Thou art by day and night my constant dream. 

M. 

Sunday Evening, February 15th. 



A POETICAL COMPLIMENT. 




This was written and presented to me at Newport, Rhode Island, 
1850. 

ADY, not easy is the task to tell 

How the deep radiance of thy sparkling eye 
Winneth all bosoms by its mingled spell 
Of tenderness and queenly majesty. 
Nor how those ever-changing hues excel, 

Which o'er thy cheek in blushing beauty fly, 
Such hues as paint the skies with roseate light 
When the slow twilight softens into night. 

But 'tis not when before thy shrine I bow, 
The idol worship claimed by beauty alone 

Which I accord to thee ; albeit thou 
Compeer in perfect loveliness hast none. 

Immortal mind is seated on thy brow ; 
And shall I idly laud its ivory throne ? 

Nay, were the gem within less rich, then I 

Might learn to praise the casket worthily. 

Thine, lady, is the better part which hath 
Its pure source in the spirit's hidden spring ; 
(20) 



TO REBECCA. 21 

For thou hast held along no common path, 
But in the free soul's chainless aspiring 

Right nobly wilt disprove the vulgar faith, 
That man alone may rise on mental wing, 

While woman's highest office is to be 

The gilded toy of his proud sovereignty. 



TO REBECCA. 




WISH you that peace the good only can feel ; 
I wish you the joys sense and virtue approve \ 
I wish you the wealth that no robber can steal. 
With a life gently gliding 'twixt Friendship and Love. 

A . . . . M . . . . 
New York, January 6tli. 



\j>^ 



TO MISS M. R. D. S. 




EAREST lady, do not trifle 

With a heart that beats for thee ; 
'Tis cruel to attempt to stifle 



Love like mine, so pure and free. 

Perhaps 'tis thus you wish to test 
The measure of my love for thee ; 

Then know my heart can have no rest 
Till certain that thine beats for me. 

Do not break the charm of hope, 
Though thy heart be lost to me ; 

Let my fancy have full scope 
That I'm loved most tenderly. 



Sweet enchantress ! on the altar 
Of my heart thy best gift lay ; 

If thou lovest me, do not falter, 
I beseech thee ! not one day. 



( 22 



New York. 



TO MISS M. R. D. SMITH. 

Then around our happy home 

Madly may the bleak winds blow \ 

Secure from storms or ills that come, 
Our stream of life will calmly flow. 

C... C. E 



23 



TO MISS M. R. D. SMITH. 18 




"•EAUTY in woman weaves a spell 
Around poor man's devoted heart, 
And he must guard the fortress well, 
Or else he'll feel the piercing dart. 
But when she has at once combined 

Charms, such as do with you exist. 
And a well-cultivated mind, 

Her magic power who can resist ? 

Dr. J T. W . . . 





TO MISS M. R. D. SMITH, 

ON NEW year's day, i8 . . . 

|ADY, you ask a verse of me. 
To while an idle hour away : 
The subject of that verse should be 
Appropriate to this gladsome day ; 
But if not so, you will excuse 
The faults of my unpolished muse. 

On each return of New Year's Day 

I feel both sad and joyful too. 
As if one friend had passed away. 

And one I'd found, sincere and true ; 
For, though this year's forever gone, 
Perhaps a brighter one is born. 

May this prove brighter far, my friend. 

To you than any have before ! 
May each succeeding New Year send 

You happiness yet more and more ! 
May all your life forever be 
From pain and care and sorrow free ! 
(24) 



TO MISS M. R. D. SMITH. 

May friendship open unto you 

The path of peace and holy love ! 

May life continual joys renew, 

And hope not too deceptive prove ! 

May sweet contentment round you throw 

Such bliss as may be found below ! 

And when at last your life shall end, 
And you have done with earthly things, 

May you then see your heavenly Friend, 
And soar aloft on Seraph's wings. 

To that bright, happy world above, 

Where all is peace and all is love ! 

Dr. J T. W . . 



25 




TO MISS M. R. D. SMITH. 




WITH A COPY OF "GOLDSMITHS POEMS, PLAYS, AND 
ESSAYS." l8 . . . 

JAIR lady, you have won from me 
5| A philopoena, and I bring 

What you before your eyes may see, 
This volume, as my offering. 

I would the gift might worthier be 

Of the fair hands that you will hold with, 

And the bright eyes with which you'll see 

These "Poems, Plays, Essays of Goldsmith." 

" Neat but not gaudy," was the motto 
Which, by its dressmaker, was used ; 

It does not blush in red morocco, 
Nor is its face with g(u)ilt suffused. 

But if you would its virtues find, 
Look inside, and you there will see 

What often has improved the mind, 
And taught the heart to better be. 

Dr. T T. W ... 

(26) 




AN EXPLANATION. 




INCE, lady, you have asked me why 

My conduct lately is so changed, 
And why I from your presence fly, 
As if from you I felt estranged : 
Although it now may be too late 
To make it needful to explain, 
Attend, and I'll the cause relate, 

That you may then no more complain. 

I once beheld a blithe young bird, 

When Spring her brightest flowers did spread. 
And shrill his wild, sweet notes were heard 

As he flew joyous o'er my head. 
But soon the charmer caught his eye, — 

No more his wild, sweet notes were heard : 
Away, away, he tried to fly, 

In vain, alas ! poor victimed bird. 

Thus, while I linger by thy side, 

And feel my heart yet light and free, 

There lurks destruction in those eyes, 
Whose power, once felt, I could not flee. 

(27) 



TO M. R. D. S 

And so, lest I should share the fate 
Of the poor bird the charmer slew, 

I fly, ere it becomes too late 
To tear myself away from you. 

Dr. J T. W . . . 




TO M. R. D. S. 

Sonnet -written to me in my youth. 

AD is thy lot, and sorrowful indeed ! 
Without a father's or a mother's love. 
All lonely doomed through this cold world 
to rove. 
While thy kind heart 'neath wicked tongues must 
bleed. 

Oh, cruel they, who with affection's care 

Should guide and guard thee on life's dangerous way, 
Yet leave thee almost friendless thus to stray. 

Where wolves and vipers in fierce anger glare ! 

Yet '' bear on bravely" with a noble heart. 
Let neither grief, nor loss, nor slander's din. 
E'er tempt thee or in word or thought to sin ; 

But meet with patience each envenomed dart. 
Keeping thy spirit meek and pure within : 

Thus to bea7' lorong is virtue's noblest part. 




THE IMMORTALITY OF HOLY LOVE. 



LINES WRITTEN TO MISS M. R. D. SMITH. 




H, did I think that death could part 

This clinging soul from thine, 
When I would clasp thee to my heart, 
How would that heart repine ! 

The bliss of earth's fond love is past, 

If fear still looks before, 
And says the hour must come at last 

When we shall love no more. 

When doomed in endless woes to dwell, 

Love shall to hate subside. 
Or bounds as broad as heaven and hell 

Our spirits shall divide. 



But Jesus conquered death, and rose, 
No more to die or grieve : 

That conquest He achieved for those 
Who on his name believe. 



(29) 



3^ 



THE IMMORTALITY OF HOLY LOVE. 

In Him they conquer every ill, 
Sin, fear, and care, and pain, 

And e'en o'er death they triumph still 
In everlasting gain. 

Thus, dear one, in a holy love 

We have no ill to fear, 
For we shall bear to realms above 

The love we cherish here. 

What though the stroke of death divide 

Our loving hearts awhile, 
Hope with the mourner shall abide, 

Each sorrow to beguile. 

What though these forms return to dust, 
Though distant graves they fill. 

Our God, who guards the sleeping just, 
Shall watch our ashes still. 

To brighter worlds we then shall soar, 
There where God dries all tears; 

Where grief or slander never more 
Shall blight our blissful years. 

And when the voice of Jesus blest 
Commands our dust to rise. 



THE IMMORTALITY OF HOLY LOVE. 

In forms of fadeless glory dressed, 
With these now tearful eyes 

How shall we on each other gaze 

With wonder and delight ; 
And while we give Him all the praise, 

Exult in heaven's own light ! 

Oh, dear one, let these hopes inspire 

Comfort in each distress ; 
Shield us from every wrong desire, 

And every duty bless ! 

Let us be armed by hopes so pure. 

Against sin's cunning arts ; 
And to make this bright prospect sure, 

Devote our lives and hearts. 

C . 



V 



TO REBECCA. 




HAT is it that thus round my heart entwineth? 

Why is it that when from thee it thus pineth? 

At the touch of thy hand, the glance of thine 
eye, 
What causeth these thrills of delight thus to fly 
Through each channel of life, and sweetly to roll 
Like a flood of pure bliss o'er, the face of the soul? 
Oh, tell me, ye who the deep problem can prove, 
Is not this the magical power of love ? 
And who would not love thee, with all thy rare charms? 
Hath not Venus more strength than Mars, God of 

Arms ? 
Yet Venus herself hath no charms like to thine, 
Thou chosen, and honored, and loved, lady mine. 
Minerva no triumph of wisdom e'er wrought 
Surpassing the conquests of thy brilliant thought ; 
And Sappho's soft strains, on her Lesbian isle. 
Had no power compared to thy heart-thrilling smile; 
Nor did Pythia e'er such wonders display. 
As flow from thy lips in sweet converse each day. 
(32 ) 



TO REBECCA. 33 

E'en the CumDean Sibyl, whose beauty won 

The heart of Apollo, Latona's great son, 

Hadst thou lived in her day, would ne'er have been 

known : 
The fame she has now would have then been thine own ; 
And Diana's self o'er Callisto the bear, 
Could no higher honor or virtue declare. 
But in vain would my muse thy attractions narrate. 
Which for words are too many, for numbers too great : 
Thy form is all beauty, — most lovely thy face. 
Thy voice is sweet music, — each action is grace ; 
Thy heart is all kindness, — thy mind is all thought ; 
Thy soul with devotion and charity fraught. 
Such are some of thy charms, may joy ever rest, 
With virtues so rare, in thy pure, gentle breast ! 
May love, peace, and honor thy journey attend. 
Till in deathless glory that journey shall end ! 
And then may that crown which unfading shall shine, 
With the full bliss of heaven, forever be thine ! 

The above complimentary effusion was by my kind and devoted 

friend the Rev. Dr. , whose many good qualities I cheerfully 

and dutifully notice, whose kind heart and services I cannot forget, 
and for whom I could have desired a more prosperous course. He 
had talents of a superior order, — God in mercy grant he is now where 
sin and sorrow are no more, through the atoning sacrifice of that 
Saviour whom, in common with us all, he so much needed, and 
whom I truly believe he so much loved ! 



LINES TO MISS R. D. SMITH, 



BY A FRIEND. 




OU have asked me to write you a line, 
And I fain would your wishes fulfill ; 
For one who hath charms such as thine, 

Must surely find friends where she will. 
But can Friendship, if worthy and true, 

Speak only to flatter or please ? 
Will it not for its object pursue 

Some ends far more noble than these ? 
I might sing of thy sparkling bright eyes ; 

Of thy brow where Minerva resides ; 
Of that beauty which with Psyche's vies. 

Or a thousand attractions besides : 
And yet would my muse but extol 

That which blooms but to wither and die. 
How vain ! oh, how vain is it all ! 

As the dust where so soon it must lie. 
My muse would to loftier themes, 

Though in humble reliance, aspire, 

(34) 



PARTING LINES TO A DEAR ERIEND. 35 

And soaring away from Earth's dreams, 
Would for thee invoke Gabriel's fire. 

Oh that, with a heart filled with love, 
And faith fixed in confidence there. 

On the Saviour, who still pleads above, 

You would cast all your hope and your care ! 

^ '; C. C. V. 



PARTING LINES TO A DEAR FRIEND. 

Addressed to me on leaving Philadelphia for Boston, to pass the 
winter of 1854. 




AREWELL, farewell ! since thou wilt leave us, 
fairest. 
May guardian angels guide thee on thy way ! 
May friends the purest, and may joys the rarest, 

Smile thy glad welcome where'er thou shalt stay! 
Cold the world is to thee, and grief and sorrow, 

Thus far, have marked the path thy feet have trod ; 
But as from darkness days their brightness borrow. 
So happier for the past may prove thy morrow. 
Grant it, O God ! 

Yet look not thou to earth for thy chief pleasures. 
Sin here throws poison in each cup of joy ; 



36 PARTING LINES TO A DEAR FRIEND. 

Fading and perishing are all earth's treasures, 

But there are those which time ne'er can destroy. 

Though tossed and restless, as was the homeless dove, 
Unto the ark of God speed thou thy flight ; 

Admitted surely by his kind hand of love, 

Thou shalt life's raging waves ride far above. 
Safe in his sight. 

Think not thou art friendless, though ofttimes weeping, 
There is One attends thee where'er thou art ; 

With hand almighty, and with eyes unsleeping, 
He will still shield and bless thy lonely heart. 

Trust thou alone in Him, — his will obeying, 
Watchfully shunning sin's bewitching snares ; 

And though thorns line the path where thou art straying, 

On his unchanging love thyself still staying, 
''Cast all thy cares." 

And when from us, alas ! thou shalt be parted, 
'Midst other scenes and colder climes to dwell, 

Remember then the warm and faithful-hearted. 
Who now in sadness sigh their fond farewell ! 

Think of the friends who here have stood beside thee. 
Who oft for thee with weeping eyes have prayed, 

Who now in ardent faith to God confide thee. 

And still will pray, whate'er on earth betide thee, 
God be her aid. 



PARTING LINES TO A DEAR FRIEND. 37 

But, oh, remember, too, the humblest flowers, 
Which lowest bow beneath the darkened skies. 

Are first to drink from earth heaven's grateful showers. 
And first with brightest, sweetest smiles to rise : 

So if thou e'er would taste of heavenly pleasure. 
Thus humbly bow while clouds obscure thy way. 

And by a lowly life seek thou that treasure, 

A glorious life of bliss no mind can measure. 
In endless day. 

Farewell, farewell ! and when perchance another. 

In tones of kindness, may salute thine ear. 
Thou then wilt think of him who as a brother, 

Oft o'er thy sorrows shed the burning tear; 
But give thy love supreme to that Redeemer 

To whom he pointed thy sad, bleeding heart, 
Then shall we meet again where raptures linger, 
Far, far beyond the reach of grief or danger, 
No more to part. 

Philadelphia. 




FAREWELL LINES TO MISS M. R. D. SMITH, 



BY SHE KNOWS WHOM. 




AREWELL, dear friend of many years, 
More dear for all thy burning tears, 
Which often flow ; 
'Tis truly said, " Earth's strongest tie 
Is that which links in sympathy 
The Aear^ to woe. ' ' 



In memory's sacred cell concealed, 
With gems to no rude eye revealed. 

Our past shall be ; 
And yet thou canst not know but part. 
The tenderness this sorrowing heart 

Hath/?// for thee. 



The end has come ! and now no more 
On Schuylkill's banks, by Newport's shore, 

Or Bartram's shades, 
Or near where Fairmount's waters foam. 
Shall we in fond communings roam : 

"Wiw^ pleasure fades. 
(38). 



FAREWELL LLNES. 39 

God send thee gentle friends and kind, 
To soothe and cheer thy troubled mind, 

With hallowed power ! 
Oh, may He guard and guide thy way, 
And bless with Hope's inspiring ray 

Its latest hour / 

Farewell ! if on the foaming sea, 
Still, I will raise my prayer for thee ; 

Or if I dwell 
In distant lands, may you be blest 
With life's pure joys and heaven's bright rest! 

Farewell ! farewell ! 




TO R. D. SMITH. 



This is not Poetry, but Poetical Prose, of which I have a good deal. 

This sweet, kindly address, however, from a valued friend of mine, 
a member of the Society of Friends, whom my mother greatly esteemed, 
I cannot but insert among my " leaves," as it was written in my early 
youth by one who has been steadfast and unchanging to me to the 
present time. 




OULD the warm wishes of a true friend avail 
thee, dear Rebecca, long ere this would those 
that often fill my heart for thee, have been 
blest to change thy sadly sorrowing to a happy lot. And 
if the record of bright wishes here send but a momejit- 
ary thrill of joy through thy frame, lighting up thy face 
with its transient gleam; and prove but like moonbeams 
on troubled waters, breaking them into smiles of seem- 
ing gladness, though they be troubled waters still, — oh, 
would it might not be ever thus ! would it might yet 
be the will of thy all-wise but merciful Heavenly Parent 
to bless thee eve7i here ! And that thou may become 
possessed of that ''joy with which no stranger can in- 
termeddle," that peace which the world knows not of, 
and finally attain the haven of rest where sorrows never 
come, is the heartfelt desire of thy sincere and affec- 
tionate friend, 



M. 



L. E.. 



(40) 




TO MISS R. D. SMITH. 

WRITTEN AT HER SIDE ON THE EVENING OF DECEM- 
BER 17TH. 

INE be a place by beauty's side, 
Where wit and worth and grace beside 
In beauteous harmony preside. 
To list those tones, so sweet, so clear, 
They seem like music of the sphere 

Breathed soft at eventide. 
Oh, if ever now on earth is found 
Elysian bliss, such place, such sound. 

Its richest joys restore ; 
This fate be mine, I ask no more 
But this, such shrine to kneel before. 
To gaze, to wonder, and adore. 




(41) 



THE SUSTAINING VOICE WITHIN.' 




AST thou not felt in sorrow's anguished hour, 
When boding grief's pervading pall hung 
o'er thee, 
The secret whispering of an unknown power, 

That brought bright gleams of cheering hope before 
thee? 



Hast thou not known the future's dubious way, 
As with the radiance of a sunbeam lightened, 

And the gray twilight of a fearful day. 

From threat'ning gloom into gladness brightened? 

And when serene thy secret bosom holds 
Communion with itself in hallowed hour, 

Is it not then a spirit pure enfolds 

Thy spirit with the mantle of its power, 



And teaches of a life beyond the skies. 

When the short conflict of this scene is o'er, 

When the rapt soul, in holy joy, shall rise, 
To taste of sorrow's mingled cup no more? 
(42) 



TO REBECCA. 43 

Despond not, then, in grief's most gloomy day, 

For guardian angels are forever near, 
The soul sustaining with hope's lambent ray. 

And whisperings, to animate and cheer. 

E. R. G. H. 

Newport. 




TO REBECCA. 

S the lark that buildeth its nest on the ground, 
yet soareth to the ''heavens," so thou, in lowly 
simplicity of heart, fair and gentle being, 
dwellest among the children of men, whilst thy spirit 
soareth above earth's coarser domains to regions of 
fruitful thought ; meekly shalt thou win spirits to hover 
near and hearts to love thee. 

As the wild rose that bloometh on the hillside and 
droops its modest head, so thou to the unappreciating 
many dwellest in the silentness of beauty; and, oh, 
may the bright smiles of an approving world illumine 
thy pathway of life midst undissembling joys ! 

May Heaven strew thy way with life's unfading 
flowers, of perfume sweet, and thy days pass sweetly 
away, calmly, gently, beautifully, as sinks the sun to 
rest in an unclouded sky: so may thy spirit depart to 
rise in the morning of the soul, in other and brighter 
worlds, blissful, eternal ! 



44 



ro REBECCA. 



The following verses were attached : 



The winter rose so rich and rare, 
Despite the cold, unfeeling air, 
Is like the virtue meek and mild 
That blooms amid the worldly wild : 
A blessed and a beauteous sight, 
A lesson of surpassing light. 

Thus have I looked upon thy face, 

Beaming with strange, superior grace. 

Artless and beautiful and lone \ 

'Mid the rough world the worshiped one, 

Like that intense, enduring light 

So lustrous it absorbs the sight. 

In thee I see the beauteous flower 
That grows more precious every hour, 
Proving how inward soul and strength 
Disarms the winter's stormiest length. 
And how, the power of life attained. 
Virtue is always self-sustained. 

Sent Anonymously. 




W^B^^^ 



IMPROMPTU. FRIENDSHIP'S OFFERING. 

This little Impromptu was written by a kind friend. I was invited 
to pay a visit to his house on Staten Island. I went, and on retiring 
to my room of a cold and wintry night, my heart was touched to find 
the following verses, with a lovely bouquet of roses and mignonette, 
lying on my dressing-table : 

MISS REBECCA SMITH. 



ELCOME, friend oi pleasant memories. 
Ever gracious, truthful lone, 
Most beloved when best we know thee. 




Welcome to our Island Home. 



May your sleep be peaceful and your dreams as 
bright and joyous as though your spirit were moved by 
the touch of an angel's wing ! 

God bless you ! 

I am now and forever your friend. 



Cltfton, Staten Island, 
February 12th. 1862. 



(45) 




MEMORIES. 

MONG the grateful remembrances of the Past, 
is the untiring interest and regard for me of 
an enthusiastic gentleman, who, for more 
than fifteen years, was constantly sending me some 
friendly wish or expression in Poetry.* I had lived 
in the same house with him and some of his family for 
a year or two in Philadelphia. I was not particularly 
intimate with him, but we always met on a friendly 
footing. He had written a small volume of Poems, 
dedicated to his mother. He knew I loved Poetry, 
and how true is the remark of Mary Howitt, that 
''Poetry is Freemasonry! They who render homage 
to it are related; they speak a word, make a sign, and 
immediately they know that they are brothers. They who 
live together impart to each other mutually the emo- 
tions of their hearts ; they who meet in a foreign land, 
like pious pilgrims, by what path they have wandered 
thither, and through what cities they have come. 



* The two preceding addresses are by him. 



(46) 



MEMORIES. 



47 



Poetry has the peculiarity of unlocking the heart and 
calling forth mutual confidence." So this gentleman, 
finding me a sympathetic and a willing listener, de- 
monstrated his gratitude for me in various ways, and 
for years, on the 14th of February, sent me a beautiful 
missive befitting the day. Nor had I the slightest 
idea from Avhom they came until after my return from 
my first visit abroad, where I had been three years; 
when on the same day, 14th of February, came a 
letter, with some flowers and some verses. I knew the 
handwriting, but not the constant friend. We met, 
however, afterwards, and he revealed himself to me. 

I will quote a little of the letter, and then give the 
verses, as in duty bound, in this volume. As I have 
already remarked, he was an enthusiast. 

" Memory, that part of man which never dies, is at 
work, and pleasant reminiscences of other days possess 
me ! 

"How beautiful, when memory comes to us a pleasant 
visitant ! The soul is a marror on which can be pictured 
every thought, act, and desire. Sympathy is the tele- 
graph over which are continually passing the needs of 
mortals, making known their conditions and where- 
abouts. 

"Oh, Memory, pale and thoughtful maid! thou 
comest robed in pensive beauty, to tell us of the 



48 MEMORIES. 

never-forgotten Past, of those for whom we cared, of 

whom we oft in memory held dear while gazing" adown 

life's vista, and wished to see again; and when the 

seasons had changed, and many had come and passed 

away, one who, like a lost Star\N\\\c\\ we had missed in 

the blue dome of heaven, met our rapt sight again as 

sunlight on flowers, all bright and beautiful. 

****** 

'^Gentle lady, esteemed and never forgotten, — one 
whom thou hast known, and to whom thou wert ever 
gracious, hath seen thee again as a bright vision, the 
same dear presence as known in years agone, and doth 
wish again to ofl"er up the homage of his willing heart 
to thee, and for whom most deferentially he hath ever 
cherished the ki?idest thoughts. A blessing he would 
ask for thee. 

****** 

'^May peace and joy go hand-in-hand together, and 
linger nigh where'er thy footsteps stray ! May all life's 
good things, and every blessing mortal here may know, 
as a bright halo o'er thy pathway ever be flung, to cheer 
and gladden thy truthful heart, and make this world to 
thee a beauteous Eden spot ! 

"Though I may have been forgotten, thou, gentle 
lady, hast not, can never be. This same date of the 
month, 14th February, hath brought to thee many 
times a token of remembrance. 

''Blessings be thine forever and for thee. 



VERSES SENT WITH A BOUQUET. 

"Smiling Hope in bright array 
Points where gladness leads the way ; 
Old memories crowd upon my brain and heart, 
And I am thine most faithfully. 

C....' 



49 




THESE VERSES CAME WITH THE BOUQUET OF FLOWERS. 

HAT worthy offering shall I lay 
On 7nemory' s consecrated shrine ? 
What tribute to the olden day, 
To tell to other hearts of mine ? 
What token, which, when distance dwells 

Between the friends of other hours, 
Most sadly, eloquently tells 

Of feelings, like the words of flowers, 
Silent and beautiful, yet fraught 
With all the strength of living thought ? 
What record shall I leave, which seen. 
Shall make once more the desert green, 

Give Fancy wings of golden light, 
Whence dewdrops shall descend around, 

Making the darkened spirits bright. 
And memory's region holy ground? 

5 (49) 



50 VEJ^SES SENT WITH A BOUQUET. 

Telling of one who loves to wake 

Remembrance, for her own sweet sake. 

With profound respect, for 

Miss M. R. D. Smith. 
C 

Philadelphia, February 14th, 1866. 




A WITTY COMPLIMENT 



OFFERED TO ME BY BALL HUGHS, SCULPTOR. 




ULCAN forged the bolts of Jove, 
A mighty Smith was he ; 
I've seen a Smitli could forge love's links, 
Would bind the raging sea. 

For the Smith's address, apply to 
Ball Hughs, Sculptor, 

Dorchester. 

October, 1849. 




(51 



TO YOU. 

Lines written to me the day after a visit to Mr. Cushing's garden, 
at Watertown, Mass. 

ADY, there moments are on earth 
So lovely, passing sweet, 
That twilight memory calls them back 
From their unknown retreat. 
To offer at their holy shrine 

Devotion such as angels pour, 
With voice and harp, from thrones divine, 
For evermore ! 




Such moments those of yesterday, 

To-day I find them past, 
I may not see their like again. 
Too sweet they were to last ; 
But still in never-dying shades. 
Fresh, vigorous, they spring. 
And from the spirit never fades 
Their halo ring ! 
(52) 



TO YOU. 

And yet, fair lady, 'mid those groves, 

That rivaled Eastern bowers, 
That gleamed in their magnificence. 

Surpassing fairy flowers, 
I gazed not on their flashing leaves, 

Nor on each radiant hue. 
But turned where beauty brighter weaves 
Her chain round you. 

But pray forgive me ; do not frown : 
The fault was yours, — not mine ; 

For who would look on flowers? earth's eyes, 
When they could gaze on thine ? 

The flowers we have always there, 
To worship, love, adore. 

But you, — a thousand times as fair. 
May come no more ! 



53 



E. B. 



C^< 




TO IDA. 



Addressed to me by Mr. 



of New York. I returned the 



original, but kept a copy. 




T was not well that in the sacred aisles, 
When bowed the knee and sunk the prostrate 
form 

In homage and in awe, the great Creator 
Was lost while gazing on his fairest work ; 
Nor was it well that the new flame within 
Kindled so brightly that devotion paled 
And died beneath its fires, and then my heart 
Made stern resolves, but each returning morn 
Has seen them melt like gentle dews away. 
It were in vain, dear Ida, to conceal 
The interest with which you have inspired me ; 
Since first I knew your every look and tone, 
Each act, however simple or disguised. 
Have marked its rise and progress, and it grew 
Unconsciously, like flowers from buds to blossoms. 
In the new, genial soil your loveliness 
(54) 



TO IDA. 

And virtues threw around it, — I would speak 

As though my inward soul were bared before thee \ 

Torn by an adverse fortune from those ties 

That bind to life, by a wide ocean severed, 

Its dark waves rolling far between, my heart, 

Amid its barren and unvalued joys, 

Longs for an object where to garner up 

Its choicest affections, — nay, dear Ida, hear me : 

As yet you know me not, — the spring of life. 

With all its buds of early bloom, is gone ; 

And autumn's fading hues and falling leaves 

Ere long will gather round me ; yet, unlike 

The herd of men, my heart, still fresh and warm. 

Beats with the pulse and kindles with the glow 

Of youthful feeling. In that heart alone 

I know no change. I feel as if decay. 

That principle of nature, found no part 

Of my essential being, — feel as if 

My mind and my affections are thus destined 

To range on in their wide and active sphere, 

Unfettered and unworn. While years glide by, 

Still, are my mind and my affections free, — 

Cares, sorrows, and the lapse of time have not 

Chilled or repressed them. As in days gone by, 

I love the forms of nature as they spread 

In majesty and varied beauty round me, 

Art's pleasing shapes have still the power to charm, 



55 



56 TO IDA. 

And music still to ravish with its sweetness, 

While youthful beauty wakens soft delight, 

And kindles all the soul to virtuous love. 

Is it, then, strange I thus am drawn to you. 

And plead a suppliant for that heart of thine ? 

Dare you to love me, dare to be my friend, 

Companion of my bosom's confidence? to yield 

Your sweet affections to me ? Can you feel 

My motives are as pure as are the pulses 

Of your own young and innocent heart ? Then love me 

As even sisters are not wont to love : 

Give me your heart ; yet if it be to you 

A gift too costly, oh, withhold it still ! 

If it estrange you from one moral sense. 

Or wake distrust of self within that bosom ; 

If it excite one pang of soft regret, 

Or violate one sacred duty there ; 

If, above all, it threaten to ensnare 

Your peace of mind, and cast a chill or gloom 

Around the hearth your presence once enlivened, 

Then give it not, — I would not purchase bliss 

At cost so fearful. But if hours are passed 

In silent sadness, and you feel a void 

Deep in the inmost soul, which naught of earth. 

With all its proud ambition and desires. 

Can ever fill ; and if at eve's lone hour 

You sigh in joyless solitude, and lonely 



TO IDA. 

Even 'mid society; and if the chord 

Of holy sympathies untouched, you sigh 

'Mid other joys, and music's pleasing tones 

Fall coldly on your ear, and Poesy 

Enchants you only with her pensive strain. 

And wakes to deepest sadness, and you pine 

For friendship, sympathy, confiding love. 

With a rich store of feeling in return 

To meet the heart's fond longings, oh, if this 

You feel, and dare to trust me with your love. 

It shall be cherished like some petted bird 

That nestles in the bosom that it rests on, 

And welcomed like the gentle dove that brought 

The olive-branch across the waters; like 

The bright arch hanging o'er the passing gloom 

Of storms and lighting up with joy and brightness. 

Like fountains in the desert ; like the rose 

That spreads its sweetness and its bloom within 

Some lonely wild, — a rare and precious gift, 

More worth than all the mines of wealth that veiled 

Lie buried in Earth's bosom : such shall be. 

So cherished and so prized, thy heart to me ! 



57 




MISS REBECCA D. SMITH. 




WOULD not praise thee, flattered as thou art 
In the bright circle of thy attached friends, 
But I may say farewell, — and dare to ponder 
Upon the soft-breathed witchery of thy words, 
And on the tones of thy melodious voice. 
More sweet than the song of early birds. 

And oft my glowing imagination 

Shall picture forth the sweet expression 

Of thy foce, and the niatchless beauty of thy form, 
Whose every movement is full of grace. 

Yes, thou within my heart shalt have a place, 

And thou whose song can make the full heart flutter 
In the sad bosom like a happy bird, 

Whose look reveals all that thy heart would utter 
Before these smiling lips have breathed a word. 

The holy breathing of whose heart was heard 
Only by angels watching thy sweet dreams. 

The holy stillness of whose heart is stirred 
Only by seraphs breathing its sweet strains. 

And now I ask /orgive/ie'ss if too ardent my admira- 
tion seems. 



Adieu, adieu, my friend ! 

B . . . . F. F . . . . 



New Orleans. 



A SWEET TRIBUTE. 

The following verses were written by my friend A. C. L., now 
Macianne B., of New York, whose culture, genius, and amiable char- 
acter above all, render her friendship prized and esteemed. 



HEN I have gazed upon that marble face 
Wrought by the Grecian sculptor's matchless 
skill, 
On which the lingering eye can never trace 

Aught but the beauty of perfection still, 
I have admired ; but when I met the chill 
And vacant gazing of its marble eye, — 
The eye whose deeps a soul alone can fill, — 
I looked no longer on the senseless clay, 
Its beauty heeding not, I coldly turned away. 

And thus from many a bright and dazzling eye, 
From many a brow like the young lily fair, 

From cheeks that rival sunset's loveliest dye. 

And from sweet lips and the soft smiles tliey wear, 

I coldly turn, **for soul is wanting there." 

But when I see expression sweet as thine. 

So softly bright, so beautifully fair, 

When loveliness of form and soul combine, 

I gladly turn to pay my homage at the shrine. 

To Rebecca D. Smith, with the best wishes and the 
affectionate regards of her friend, 

A C. L 

(59) 



A SACRED REMEMBRANCE. 




BOUT six weeks after my beloved mother's 
death, I went to Newport, Rhode Island. 
For a month previous I had been at Perth 
Amboy, where I had been under strong religious im- 
pressions, and had serious thoughts of joining the 
Episcopal Church : although I saw much there that I 
could not entirely sympathize with, and a formality 
I could not approve. In looking at that church, I 
had often been reminded of the remarks of the excel- 
lent Dr. Arnold, of Rugby, who, although an Episcopal 
divine, was liberal enough and candid enough to admit 
its errors, saying, ^'The Church of England has always 
borne the mark of its birth, the child of arrogance 
and pretension," etc. ; but at least I wished to be bap- 
tized, not for the sake of joining the church, but in 
obedience to the commands of Christ ; and the event 
took place at the little church at Perth Amboy, I 
frankly telling the officiating clergyman that I wished 
to be baptized not as an Episcopalian, but simply be- 
cause I believed Christ had commanded it. I did not 
feel more comfortable afterwards ; my mind was sore 
perplexed; and, the first Sunday after my arrival in 
(60) 



A SACKED REMEMBRANCE. 6i 

Newport, I wrote to a Christian friend, stating all my 
feelings and imaginations and doubts, saying I did not 
know where to attend divine worship, 'but, after all, 
thought I would go to the Friends' meeting. I sent 
for a carriage and went, arriving there very late; and 
soon after I took my seat, a minister of the Society 
arose and preached a sermon so singularly applicable 
to me, my heart was overwhelmed within me. Among 
other things, he said these striking words, — he had 
been addressing some one individual in the assembly, 
and remarked, in continuation, ''Oh, thou, whoever 
thou art, and I believe I may bring it home to thee with 
great particularity, thou hast seen within a brief period, 
in the death of one near and dear to thee, what a 
death of peace a life of devotedness can produce." 
And he went on speaking words so illustrative of my 
position in everyway, and my state of mind^ that I was 
affected to tears, and, but that I controlled myself, would 
have- sobbed aloud : he spoke of my trials and griefs, 
of the pleasant pictures which ray heart clung to, and 
then of mercy and peace for me and the love and care 
of a gracious God. I was, although profoundly moved, 
greatly comforted ; but after the meeting broke up 
and persons generally had parted, I still continued 
sitting with bowed head, till a voice near me said, 
" My dear Rebecca, I do not wonder thou feels this: 
it is the most wonderful instance I have ever known of 

6 



62 A SACRED REMEMBRANCE. 

the immediate inspiration of our friends." She con- 
tinued : " I do not want thee to speak much about it ; 
but to ponder upon it and be thankful in thy heart." 
She then said, "Thou had better not go back to thy 
boarding-house, but come home and dine with us." I 
did so, and went to meeting again in the afternoon. 
I felt tranquil, and had the blessed assurance I was 
cared for by my heavenly Father. I Avished to be 
humble under so gracious a feeling, — but I was happy. 
I knew this preacher had never seen me before, that 
he knew nothing whatever about me, that no- one knew 
that I was in the town, above all, that I would attend 
the meeting. It was therefore a very remarkable thing. 
I went the next day to see this man of God, who, like 
the disciples of old, "ministered to his own necessities;" 
— he was poor as to this world's goods, but rich in 
things pertaining to the kingdom of heaven. I found 
him in his little shop, an obscure shoemaker. This 
man, so rich with God's holy spirit, so intellectual, 
so forcible in his discourses, so eloquent, with a heart 
glowing with zeal and faith as Saint Paul's, was one 
whom the great of this world would scarcely own, but 
precious in his heavenly Father's sight, and heir to a 
glory the superficial minions of this world's kingdom 
can never hope for. I told him I had listened to his 
discourse of yesterday: that it had deeply touched me. 
I stated my reasons, and mentioned the loss of my 



A SACRED KEMEMBKANCE. 



63 



mother. I begged to ask him if he had ever heard of 
me, or knew anything of me in any way; he gently 
smiled, and said, "Nothing whatever." He added, 
'^ I remarked a young woman weeping very much as I 
passed out of meeting, and I afterwards asked my 
daughter, 'Who was that young woman?'" I paid 
him a precious visit, precious from the spirit and 
unction of goodness which this devoted Christian shed 
upon my heart. From that time I had the privilege 
of going to see him again and again, and was always 
received with the kindness that becomes the Christian 
character. I told him all my trials, doubts, buffetings, 
and conflicts. God Almighty, in adorable mercy', for 
Jesus' sake, grant that the words he once addressed to 
me may be realized. They were as follows: *' Rebecca, 
if I ever get to heaven, I expect to see thee there !" God 
grant that it be so, Christ grant it. Holy Spirit grant 
it, blessed Trinity grant it ! Amen ! Amen ! 

I discovered at length he wrote poetry. I went to 
him and asked him to give me a few lines. His reply 
was, with a sweet smile, ''Rebecca, poesy does not 
flourish in a shoemaker's shop." But, seeing my wish, 
and that I was not disposed to take a refusal, he gave 
me as follows: 




TO M. R. D. SMITH. 

Newport, gth mo. 2d, 1849. 

HE dew of Hermon silent fell," 
Searching along the ground, 
'' Till every thirsting, fading plant 
New life and verdure found. 
The ointment poured on Aaron's head 

Ran down upon his beard, 
Spreading a perfume o'er his robes, 

And beauteous all appeared : 
So when our social heritage 

Lies dropped with heavenly dew, 
Verdure and blossom mark the field, 

And fragrance swells anew. 
Rich in such favors here below, 

And hopes of things in heaven, 
Mayst thou hope onward till that day 
Possession shall be given ! 

Moses H. Bede. 



"J^^ 



(64) 



BY THE SAME. 

WRITTEN IN 1864. 

This most esteemed friend, a recommended minister of the Society 
of Friends, some years afterwards sent me an interesting letter, in which 
he wrote : " Calling to mind the circumstance of thy too short call on 
us, I could hardly omit the expression of words as they are in the 
note accompanying." 

I had paid him a hurried visit at his comfortable cottage in Paw- 
tucket, near Providence, Rhode Island, on my return from Boston to 
Philadelphia. The letter and verses were the result of our brief in- 
terview. 




EBECCA, hast thou ever known 
The infinite worth of a sisrh, — 



That half-suppressed breath which alone 
Seeks hearing and grace from on High ? 
There are pent-up emotions of soul 

Which thy tongue no wording has given ; 
And thy Saviour interprets the whole 

"As prayer finding language in heaven. 
Hast thou ever valued a tear, — 

That pearl from a fathomless sea, — 

6* ( 6s ) 



65 TO MISS K. D. SMITH. 

Which renders the object more dear, 

On whom our affections may be? 
'Tis a pearl from the hand of thy Lord, 

Which trusting souls ever have kept : 
When for our griefs He found not one 7vord, 

Then Jesus in sympathy wept. 
Has that scene ever burst on thy sight, 

When thy Lord, with ^^ the faithful and few,' 
In fear and in trembling by night 

Fox prayer to the garden withdrew, 
When bearing the sin of the world, 

In suffering anguish profound ? 
Ay, we tremble e'en here to behold 

His '^face sweating blood to the ground .'' 
Hast thou measured the depths of that love, 

When remembering thee in that prayer. 
That believers may meet Him above 

With the blessed, and ever be there ? 
That thy griefs He endured as his own, 

And made all thy sufferings his ; 
Felt every deep pang of earth's home, 

That all may be sharers in bliss? 
And wilt thou believe in his Grace, 

Through which all our blessings are given ? 
He '^ went to prepare thee a place ;'' 

And comes to prepare thee for Heaven. 



TO MISS R. D. SMITH. 67 

When late we exchanged the adieu, — 

I, with my dear home to remain, 
And thou, with the city in view, 

To share this world's conflicts again, — 
I felt that the cup was e' en there 

In fullness wrung out at thy side. 
In the quest : " Who for me can take care? — 

J^est in Heaven I by whom be supplied?" 
But I saw the fed sparrow yet lived, 

And the lily yet royally dressed ; 
And my faith in rich mercy revived. 

That, the heart sorrowing now may be blessed. 
Thick darkness, surrounding the Throne, 

May veil the full majesty here ; 
And the riches of grace be unknown. 

Though the Giver of blessings be near. 
What mortal could compass the thought 

That ruled in the Infinite mind. 
When feeding for Israel was brought. 

And surely, though borne on the wind ! 
And who then conceived that a word 

Could nature's strong fastness unlock. 
And a famishing host be restored 

By streams bursting out of the rock ! 
If to deeds of such wonder thy Lord 

Would add but the gift, — to beliei^e, 



6S 



TO MISS R. D. SMITH. 



Thy heart, holding faithful his word, 
Would help thee to ask, and receive. 

Let the dead world but bury its dead, 
Let vain things in vanity lie. 

And a diadem waiting thy head 
The victor receiveth, on High. 

M... . 

Pawtucket, 1864. 



B 




TO MISS R. D. SMITH. 

The following was written by the gallant but unfortunate Lieut. 
George Decatur Twiggs, who had distinguished himself in a prior 
action, and was killed serving under Major Lally, U. S. A., on the 
I2th of August, 1847, in a combat at the National Bridge, near Vera 
Cruz, while discharging the duty of Lieutenant in the place of one who 
had just fallen. 




HAPPY life be thine, lady, thrice happy 

may it be. 
And, oh ! from every thought of pain mayst 
thou, loved friend, be free ; 
May every joy that earth can give, all happiness, be 

thine, 
And round about ihy pathway bright may blessings 

closely twine 
With every hope and every wish thy gentle heart can 

know, 
And every prayer, dear lady, that from thy sweet lips 

flow; 
And with every boon thou ask'st and with sweet peace 

be thou blest, 
And mayst thou never, never know a heart without a 
rest. 

( 69 ) 



yo TO MISS R. D. SMITH. 

May care and sickness, with their train, dear lady, 

from thee flee, 
And leave bright health to whisper sweet its accents 

•dear to thee ; 
Yes, may it gladly murmur like soft music in thine 

ear. 
And may thy bright eye never shroud its lustre with 

a tear ; 
Oh, may the clouds of sorrow dark, that gather over- 
head, 
And lower wild and fearfully, and fill our hearts with 

dread, 
Be ever blown aside from thee ; and mayst thou never 

know. 
Dear lady, what it is to feel the bitterness of woe. 

Tread in thy sainted mother's path, for 'tis a glorious 

one ; 
Like her, oh, never turn aside, but steadily press on ; 
Take, like that dear departed saint. Religion for thy 

stay, 
And God, who was thy mother's guide, will guide thee 

on thy way. 
The road may seem a rugged one when gazed on from 

afar. 
But yet 'tis safe, — 'tis lighted by a beauteous beacon 

star; 



TO MISS R. D. SMITH. 71 

And though the path is narrow, still 'tis smooth when 

we are near, 
For 'tis cut and wrought out by a noble Pioneer. 
I ask not Fortune's gifts for thee — they cannot purchase 

joy, 

They have no power to calm the heart, they cannot 

grief destroy ; 
I ask her not with glittering gems or gold to deck thee 

now, 
But this I ask- — may happinessyi?;r^;^/' light thy brow. 

G. D. T. 




WE THREE. 

Some years ago I was associated intimately with a lady, * who became 
to me almost as a mother. We lived in the same house together for 
a long time, and I recall vividly her warm expressions of interest and 
affection for me. We had a mutual friend, who was a clergyman, who 
was devoted to us, and who seemed our shadow. 

He, as well as my kind friend, has passed away. The following 
Prayer by him still lives ; may its invocation still bring a benediction 
upon the one that yet survives of " We Three.'" 



GOD of grace ! hear thou our prayer ; 

And let us three thy goodness share ; 

As, joined by common ills and woes, 
Beset by sorrows and by foes, 
Homeless and fatherless we roam, 
To thee, in humble prayer, we come. 

The sparrow thou dost shield and bless ; 
The lily clothe in gorgeous dress ; 



* This lady was Miss H ... . T a convert from Quakerism to 

the Episcopal Church, of which she was a faithful member; and she 
was for many years Superintendent of the Sunday-school of St. Philip's 
Church, in Vine Street above Seventh. 
(72) 



JVE THREE. 

The little ravens cry to Thee, 
And Thou dost grant their suppliant plea 
Oh, then, be Thou our guard and guide. 
And o'er our way, in love, preside. 

Oh, may thy Spirit's blessed light 
Reveal a Saviour to our sight, 
And as in common griefs and fears 
We mingle now our sighs and tears. 
So, by a common faith, may we 
Find hope, and rest, and joy, in Thee. 

May we on Him in trust repose, 
Who bore for us far greater woes, — 
Who laid his starry crown aside. 
And on the cross in anguish died. 
That we, by penitence and faith. 
Might gain a life which knows no death. 

Lead us to Him, and may our hearts 
Taste the sweet joy his smile imparts. 
When, sins subdued and all forgiven. 
The soul exulting looks to Heaven, 
Where sorrow's night shall fade away 
In one eternal, cloudless day. 

Oh, may his love our love inspire ! 
Our zeal with holy ardor fire 

7 



74 



iy£ THREE. 

To live to do his blessed will, 
To bid each murmuring thought be still, 
To count all earthly good but loss, 
And gladly bear his holy cross. 

Help, help us, O Almighty One, 

To press with deathless vigor on 

In that straight path our Saviour trod, — 

The only path that leads to God. 

Then, when this fleeting life is o'er, 

We to our home in Heaven shall soar. 

Bless those we love, — our foes forgive ; 
Let earth thy glorious truth receive ; 
And, oh ! we plead by Him who died, — 
By Him who still pleads at thy side ; 
In his dear name we cry to Thee : 
Lord, hear, and love, and save us three. 



VERSES BY JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. 



The ensuing lines were addressed to me by John Howard Payne, 
the author of that charming song, " Home, Sweet Home." I knew 
Mr. Payne quite intimately in New York ; he went with me one day 
to see Jenny Lind. IVe were received graciously; but an incident 
occurred there which I shall never forget, and which did not develop 
the more favorable part of her character. I will not, however, name it. 

Mr. Payne, along with his verses, sent me a witty note, which is 
worthy of being transcribed here. In it he alludes to the latter por- 
tion of the couplet written by my friend Mr. Twiggs, — 

" A happy life be thine, lady, thrice happy may it be; 
And, oh ! from every thought of pain mayst thou, loved friend, be 
free." 




TRANGE seems the prejudice wherewith 
All persecute the name of Smith ; 
Since, through the fascination 
Of one possessor of the name, 
Such thrilling titles it can claim 

To more than admiration. 

(75) 



76 VERSES BY JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. 

And yet, to those unknowing her 
Whose spells upon that name confer 

Enchantment, far more strange it 
Must seem that we should also find 
There are so many of a mind 

To make the charmer change it. 

J. P. H 






NOTE FOR MY ALBUM. 



BY JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. 




New York, 673 Broadway, 
November nth, 1850. 

MUST not, my dear Miss Smith, thank the 
gods that I am not poetical, when its conse- 
quences make me apprehensive of your con- 
sidering me as desecrating your album by the doggerel 
I have inserted ; nevertheless, I will not deprive my- 
self of the agreeable opportunity you permit of a place 
among my betters, especially since — as the old rhyme- 
ster in the play says — I know that my verses, bad as 
they may be, are better than most people's prose, be- 
cause they are true. Permit me to add, that, much 
as I admire what my predecessors have achieved for 
you, there is one among them with all of whose lines I 
cannot entirely concur. I allude to the latter portion 
of the couplet, — 

"A happy life be thine, lady, thrice happy may it be; 
And, oh ! from every thought o^ pain mayst thou, loved 
friend, be free !" 

7^ ( 77 ) 



78 NOTE FOR MY ALBUM. 

For, although no one can wish you more happiness 
than I do, it would render me extremely uncomfort- 
able to suppose that your eloquent appreciator's de- 
precation for you against "every thought oi pain''' 
should not admit of some exception. 

On the contrary, you have so emboldened me by the 
allowance of a corner in your beautiful volume of 
written recollections by others, as to inspire me with a 
hope that you will sometimes, among the more beau- 
tiful U7nv7'itte}i ones in your own heart of those by 
whom you have been thus remembered, give at least a 
momentary '^ thought" to 

Yours, most respectfully and faithfully, 

John Howard Payne. 




JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. 

AN INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF THE AUTHOR OF ''HOME, 
SWEET HOME." 

Whilst gathering together my leaves from the Past, with a view of 
placing them more permanently together, I came across this anecdote 
of John Howard Payne, in the Evening Bulletin, of, I think, January 
loth, 1872. As Mr. Payne is among those whose poetry to me I have 
c illected here, it seems not inappropriate to add this interesting ac- 
cjunt to his facetious addresses to me. 




HE Savannah (Ga.) News is reminded of an 
incident in the life of the author of " Home, 
Sweet Home," which occurred in Georgia 
many years ago, and which proved that the question of 
the authorship of that world-popular lyric is not con- 
fined exclusively to the literati of either Europe or this 
country. 

"At the time of the troubles in this State, growing 
out pf the removal of the Cherokee Indians about the 
year 1836, John Howard Payne, then in search of ma- 
terial for a contemplated work on the Aborigines of 
America, was a guest of John Ross, Head Chief of the 

(79) 



8o JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. 

Cherokee Nation, who resided in Tennessee, just over 
the Georgia line. A troop called the Georgia Guard, 
under the command, we believe, of Colonel, afterwards 
General Bishop, had been organized for the protection 
of settlers on the Indian frontier. Northern emissa- 
ries, pretended missionaries, had been among the 
Indians, stirring up trouble and instigating them to 
hostilities against the whites. News reached the camp 
of the Georgia Guard that one of these characters was 
at that time at Ross's house, endeavoring to persuade 
the Indians not to leave the State in compliance with 
the treaty with the Federal Government. Such inter- 
ference being regarded as dangerous to the peace and 
safety of the white settlements, a detachment of the 
mounted Guard proceeded in the night to Ross's 
house, where they surprised Mr. Payne, and, regardless 
of his explanations and protests, took him prisoner. 
In the dark stormy night he was made to mount his 
horse and accompany the guard some ten or fifteen 
miles through a wild mountainous country to their 
camp. 

''The troop was composed of young mountaineers, 
who, with their strong prejudices against the Yankee 
missionaries, as they were called, were not inclined to 
be very civil or obliging to their captive. From them 
Mr. Payne could learn nothing satisfactory in regard 
to the charges against him, why he was deprived of his 



JOHN HOWARD PAYNE, gl 

liberty, nor what disposition they designed to make of 
him. Under these circumstances, as his horse stumbled 
and plunged in the thick darkness, over a rough path, 
while his captors sang their boisterous songs or enjoyed 
their rude jokes, often at his expense, his meditations 
were of a sombre and melancholy character. At one 
time a natural vocalist broke forth in ' Home, Sweet 
Home.' He sang it remarkably well, and as the rich, 
pure tones of his fine tenor voice swelled upon the mid- 
night air, and woke the echoes of the silent woods, his 
companions ceased their boisterous conversation, while 
some good voices joined in the chorus. If the touch- 
ing melody ' soothed the savage breast' and struck a 
sympathetic chord in the hearts of his rude captors, it 
stirred the profoundest sensibilities of the unhappy 
captive, and all unseen by them the tears flowed down 
his cheeks as he rode forward in silence. 

"As the song ceased and the echoes of the chorus 
died away in the distance, the poet checked his horse 
until the singer came up with him. 

"They rode along side by side for a few yards, the 
young man still humming the air he had just been sing- 
ing, while Mr. Payne's mind was, perhaps, contrasting 
his present sad situation with happier scenes of the 
past, associated with his immortal song. At length he 
ventured to address his guard. 

" 'You have an excellent voice, young man.' 



82 JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. 

'''Well, yes,' he replied; 'I can sing a consider- 
able of a stave when I try.' 

" ' You sang "Home, Sweet Home," just now, re- 
markably well.' 

"'That's because I like that song. Whenever I 
sing it, it makes me feel good, someliow. ' 

' " Do you know who wrote it ?' 

"'No. I don't know who writ it, but he must a' 
been a monstrous smart man, whoever he was.' 

"'You will, perhaps, be surprised when I inform 
you that the author of that song is now addressing 
you.' 

"'What!' 

" ' I am the writer of the song you just sung.' 

"At this statement the young mountaineer, with a 
loud laugh, lay back in his saddle and shouted to his 
comrades: 'What do you think, boys? Old Saddle- 
bags says he writ "Home, Sweet Home," and I got 
it out of the " Western Songster" more'n a year ago !' 

"It was useless after that for the poet to make any 
explanations. The ' Western Songster' settled the 
question of authorship, and Mr. Payne was glad when 
some incident changed the topic of conversation, and 
he ceased to be the object of the coarse ridicule of his 
rude and unfeeling persecutors. 

"The writer heard Mr. Payne relate the incident 
to the late Dr. Longstreet in Augusta only a few days 



TO MISS REBECCA D. SMITH. ^t^ 

after its occurrence. We should state that Mr. Payne, 
after being conveyed to the camp of the Georgia 
Guard, was detained there a day or two, until his real 
character was ascertained. His arrest was much re- 
gretted by the people of Georgia." 



TO MISS REBECCA D. SMITH, 

WITH A PAIR OF GLOVES. 

OW modest in color, in texture how fine ! 



m 



Fit garniture those for hands so divine ; 
How I envy the office that to them is given ! 
Fo protect those sweet hands, to me it were heaven. 

T B 



C> 



WOODBURY. 

Spending some weeks at Washington, in 1851, I lived at the same 

hotel as Judge W 's family, with whom I was on friendly 

terms. 

At parting, the Judge wrote the following in my album, which, 
coming from an aged man, and one who had served and was high in 
the esteem of his country, is not without interest on that account. 

I. 

LINE poetic for a beauty's book, 
Of none should be required 
Not poet born, — not inspired 
With thouo:hts that breathe and words that burn. 




In daily life, the heart in prose 
May gush with hope — despair; 
Yet for a page so fair 

Belong but gems of poetry and love. 

Washington, 7th March, 1851. 



To Miss R. D. Smith, with my kindest wishes for 
her happiness. 

(84) 



WRITTEN BY MRS , IN 1863. 




H ! veil not thou the lustre of thy soft, dark 
eyes, 
Nor suffer the white lids to droop, hiding 
the tears 
Which spring from the heart's deep fount, as memory 
flies 
Back through the mists and gloom of weary years. 
I cannot bear to see thee weep, or hear the sighs 
That heave thy gentle breast as thy soft tones 
Linger in trembling woe o'er years gone by. 

And the bright hopes that with those years have 
flown. 

Well do I know that thou hast suffered; hearts like 
thine 

Feel deeply every rude or chilling breath ; 
'Tis like a fragile plant, or tender clinging vine. 

Which, torn from its support, soon droops in death. 
I know how hard it is to lift the eyes 

Toward Heaven's blue vault, longing for light. 

And find that darkness cold and dreary veils the skies, 

Till every star is wrapt in deepest night. 

8 (85) 



86 WRITTEN BY MRS , IN 1863. 

Life teems with flowers, varied, bright and sweet ; 

But when thy hand with eager gladness sought 
To pluck them, like to the dust beneath thy fairy feet 

They turned (oh, with what woe is such experience 
fraught !). 
When thy kind heart swelled with some promised joy. 

And throbbed, glad at its coming bliss, 
Thou'st never found that bliss without alloy. 

Until thou'st cried, "■ God, what is life like this !" 

And yet, dear friend, thou'st much to give thee joy on 
earth : 

Thou hast been honored, loved, and sought 
By many, great of nature and of birth ; 

With homage, admiration, love, thy life is fraught. 
Should this be all forgotten, — cast aside ? 

No, darling, nor will you forget them in your days of 
grief; 
A memory of these things in your heart abide. 

And in your darkest hours bring some relief. 

For all things sweet and joyous come from God, 
As well as sorrows, which but try the heart 

To task its strength. The path great Christians trod 
Of old, was full of thorns. Yet did the pain impart 

New strength and beauty; as we oft are told. 
May God for thee all earthly blessings send. 
And crown thee with glory when life shall end. 






TO R. D. SMITH. 




RE the silver cord be loosened, 
[ And the bowl beside it lies 
Broken at the troubled fountain 
Vainly sought to for supplies ; 
Ere the music and the sunshine 

Which have made this earth so bright 
Shall have deepened into silence, 
Shall have vanished into night ; 

Ere the ties of earth around thee 

Like the leaves of Autumn lie, ' 
And its rainbow forms of beauty 

Vanish from thy sunset sky ; 
May a heart which inly pineth 

For communion higher far, — 
For a love undimmed and changeless, — 

Than its brightest day-dreams are, — 



Seek, in realms of fadeless splendor, 
Joys which earth hath never known, — 

(87) 



8 TO K. D. SMITIL 

Hopes which ne'er elude possession, 

Love undying as its own ; 
Till thy joy becomes fruition, 

Till thy hope becomes sublime. 
And the love of Christ thy Saviour 

Triumphs over Death and Time, 

Is the very sincere desire of thy attached cousin, 

M . . . N L . . . 

Stenton. 




BEAUTIFUL SONNET 



ADDRESSED TO ME BY THE REV. C W 




Y name amid memorials ! 

Oh, than this 
Ambition hath no dream more fair and high, 
With all its hopes of glory ! Thus to live 
Amid the memories of one gentle heart, 
A sculpture on the tablet of the soul 
In this poor world of changes. 

And for thee, 
Lady, had I a power to work my will 
Amid Eternal councils, and could bow 
Archangels to my bidding, and bring down 
All radiant things around thee, till thy life 
Should wear the very mantling light of heaven, — 
Oh, not of this should be thy rapture wrought ; 
But with a love upspringing from this life 
Immortal and celestial, I would win 
For thee, amid the splendors of the skies, 

8* ( 89 ) 



90 



BEAUTIFUL SONNET. 



A Guerdon oi more glory, — Thine should be 
A record in Eternity, — Thy name, 
Amid Divine memorials kept in love, 
Writ in the volume of the Book of Life. 

Yours, very truly, 
C W. 

June loth, 1851. 





ACROSTIC, 



ADDRESSED TO MISS REBECCA D. SMITH. 



IMPROMPTU. 



Written on reading her memoir of her mother. 




EAD well thyself the book thoii writest so 
well; 
Each page is laden with the gems of truth ! 
Beside the love of which thy pages tell, 

Each line's a lesson to improve thy youth. 
Calm on the lake at summer eve we see 

Complacently our every feature shown ; 
And thus in memory's mirror 'tis for thee. 

Dear friend, to make her virtues all thine own ! 
Since piety and grace can win us heaven, 

Must souls immortal emulate the just ; 
Incite by memories such as thou hast given, 
To follow her, and, like her, to be blessed, — 
Her heaven to be our everlasting rest. 

J. L S 

(91) 



ADDRESSED TO MISS R. D. SMITH, 



UPON READING HER MEMORIAL OF HER MOTHER. 



RIGHT softened beams of glorious light 
The setting sun displays, 
And gilds the clouds with traces bright 
Of his expiring rays. 




So have thy last, — thy parting hours 
Shed light upon my heart ; 

And from the grave I gather flowers 
Which scents of heaven impart. 

The holy death of saints is blessed ; 

Their life a perfume lends ; 
Thy memory on my heart shall rest 

As dew from heaven descends. 

Oh, God ! may I, like her, in thee 
My final hope repose, — 

In death no king of terrors see, 
But joy my course to close. 

New York, December 23d, 1850. 
(92) 




POETIC GEM. 

I had the pleasure to meet, at Saratoga, in the year 1850, Bishop 
Spencer, at that time Lord Bishop of Jamaica. We often talked and 
walked together. He recited once to me some beautiful verses by his 
father, the Bishop of Exeter, that I had always ignorantly believed 
were by Moore, beginning with, — 

" Too late I stayed ; forgive the crime : 
Unheeded flew the hours. 
How noiseless falls the foot of time 
That only treads on flowers," etc. 

On leaving Saratoga, he wrote the following graceful lines in my 
album : 




OT to a fragile page confined, 
Which any idle hand may tear, 
But on the tablet of thy mind 
I'd have my memory appear; 
And if on that so lucid sphere 

Aught of reflected light may shine, 

Then be this verse a moonbeam here, 

Whose noonday lustre's only thine. 



A. G. S. 

(93) 



TO MISS SMITH. 

During the autumn of the year 1858, I paid an interesting visit to 
Canada, soon after my return from my first visit of three years to 
Europe. I met some pleasant people there, who became very friendly 
to me. Of Quebec, especially, I retain most agreeable souvenirs of 
courtesies and acts of kindness such as give a charm to life, and make 
existence seem a blessing. 

The following address, written and given to me by an amiable and 
lovely lady, on my birthday, the anniversary of which happened whilst 
I was there, I am happy to insert among my leaves of the past. 




BRING no wreath, no offering gay, 

On this thy natal morn ; 
The summer flower — the rose — is gone, 



That might thy brow adorn. 

But wishes, kind, sincere, and true. 

To each and all belong, 
And friendship glows, though summer tints 

And summer flowers are gone. 



Though chill the blast, though dark the storm 

That hurls the snowdrift by. 
Naught can each well-remembered friend 

Efface from memory. 
(94) 



TO MISS SMITH. 

As unexpectedly we hear 
Some long-forgotten lays, 

We listen to recall again 
The scenes of by-gone days. 

The Past, — then may it come to thee 
Like pleasant strains of song ; 

The Future, — may it bring to thee 
Years happy, bright, and long. 

E S. 

Quebec, October 6th, 1858. 



95 



FESTAL SOUVENIR. 




Washington City, March, 1861. 

EING at the National Hotel, at the capital of 
our country, just as some of the most distin- 
guished persons were about leaving for their 
homes at the close of ^'the season," an incident 
occurred worthy of note, which I will here relate as 
not inappropriate in this little volume. 

Mr. and Mrs. C , well known, the one for 

his statesmanlike and honorable character, the other as 
an accomplished and amiable member of society, were 
about departing for their residence in Kentucky. Mr. 
C. was highly esteemed. Mrs. C. had been in the 
habit of passing her winters at Washington, and 
chiefly at this hotel, for twenty-seven years, and by 
her winning and attractive manners had won affection- 
ate consideration from the yearly visitors here. One 
beautiful trait in her character I must not fail to name, 
and that is her entire freedom from the usual sin of 
gossip, slander, and detraction. No one ever heard 
this lady speak an injurious word of another ; silent 
was her tongue if she could say no good of a fellow- 
being. No ugly backbiting, no envious or traducing 
remark, ever passed her lips. For this alone, — the rare 
(96) 



FESTAL SOUVENIR. 



97 



and precious virtue of refraining from this most per- 
nicious and cruel evil from which so many have suf- 
fered, — she merits our esteem. 

'' Blest are the lips that open but to bless, 
That never yet the gentle heart belied : 
Still prone to praise, to soothe, or to caress. 
And ever slow to censure or to chide." 

It was thought proper, then, on the occasion of the 

departure of Mr. and Mrs. C , to give a 

party at the hotel, to which general invitations should 
be given. A large assemblage was the consequence. 

Judge N. . . ., of the Supreme Court, was deputed 

by the ladies to present Mrs. C a superb 

bouquet, with some appropriate remarks. Afterwards 

the Rev. Mr. L , of Boston, made an address to 

Mrs. C of a highly flattering character, and 

the evening passed off gaily in music and dancing, and 
chatting. 

Tbe Spanish minister was my companion during 
most of the evening; General Scott spoke words of 
graciousness to me, which, from such a veteran, fell 
pleasantly on my ear. Senators and members, judges 
and lawyers, the fashionable and gay, with tuft-hunters 
in abundance, and some members of the family at the 
White House, were here, and ladies of all sorts, in gay 
toilette, interspersing very agreeably the dense mass of 



98 FESTAL SOUVENIR. 

black coats which were everywhere to be seen. But 
the midnight hours passed, and by degrees the crowd 
dispersed, and the sound of music and revelry was 
hushed, and the C festivity was forever num- 
bered with things of the past. 

But Mr. Lovejoy, our poet friend, determined to 
commemorate it, and, in an agreeable and kindly 
manner, for the benefit of the ladies, wrote a little 
poem, thus immortalizing the event, describing the 
occasion, etc. ; finally giving a sort of poetical portrait, 
in the most favorable colors, of the ladies of the 
National Hotel who were present at this interesting 
fete. Fair and flattering were the friendly words he 
addressed to us all; and at the termination of the 
poem he gave some words of advice to his lady friends, 
it would be well for us all to follow. 

As the characters he describes were many, I shall 
not here repeat them, but only copy his pleasant lines 
to me, which they who know me best can pronounce 
true or false, as they may deem to be the case ; con- 
cluding, afterwards, with his final remarks to the ladies, 
to which I have already alluded. 

The lines to me are as follows : 

And now. Miss Smith, I turn to you 
A wondrous tale, and yet 'tis true : 
When Isaac sent to Nahor's fold 
A wife for him to take and hold. 



FESTAL SOUVENIR. 

" I'll go," the fair Rebecca cried, 
And forth she went, to be a bride. 
But our Rebecca still says no, 
And bids her clustering suitors go 1 
Daughter of Eve, and womankind 
Still has the right to change her mind ; 
Some raptured soul will prove it true. 
And think it Heaven to be with you. 

Thy form, Rebecca, heavenly fair. 

Is fit some angel sure to wear; 

All stores of knowledge in thy mind; 

A loving heart and taste refined ; 

Depths in thy heart, are as the sea, — 

Depths of love and purity; 

Oh ! crown some soul with double bliss. 

And wear his name and drop the Miss. 

Concluding address to the ladies : 

Now, ladies, all be good and true, 
And deal with me as I with you : 
Be to my virtues very kind, 
And to my faults a little blind. 

As on the stream of life we sail. 
Let words of kindness never fail ; 



99 



FESTAL SOUVENIR. 

For words are acts of silver hue. 
As you bless others they bless you. 

And when life's toilsome work is done, 
And heavenly raptures are begun, 
Then angels on their harps shall tell 
The sweetest notes that ours shall swell. 




HEN the sweet garland of these leaves complete 

An hour of memory shall beguile. 
And this thy wandering glance shall chance 
to meet, 



May it receive the present of a smile. 



G. G. 



New York, 



JEU D' ESPRIT. 

Washington City, April, 1861. 

Soon after the foregoing rhymes were written, on the occasion of 
the Crittenden Party, another evening reunion took place, — a sort of 
soiree datisaiite, given by an officer of the navy, I believe. It was a 
gay affair, and three gentlemen of the hotel undertook a description 
of it in poetry, which proved to be quite a success. The verses were 
really good, and the ladies described were well pleased with their 
poetic pictures. Mine ran thus : 

MISS S. 




YES looking through the black curls, 
Careless, and vagrant, and free ; 
Chin round, and smooth as the pearls 



From the depths of the Indian Sea; 
Ears that are perfect as shells, 

As rosy, as blushing, as neat ; 
Features all casting weird spells 

Upon those who would kneel at her feet ; 

9* ( lOI ) 



I02 JEU D' ESPRIT. 

Completeness, perfection, a whole, 

Is the lesson we learn at a gaze, 
And the sensitive thought of the soul 

Is transparent throughout her sweet face. 

There was a good deal of merit in this poetical eflfusion ; but the 
authors were very severe upon the preceding " Rhymes by Lovejoy," 
whose star was entirely eclipsed by the verses of the " Happy Family," 
— for so the trio styled themselves who composed the lines of which I 
have just been writing. 



FROM ONE OF THE GIFTED WRITERS 
OF OUR COUNTRY. 




New Port 



ID not the fates to me refuse 
In flowery fields to rove, 
* The fairest I would gladly choose 
To decorate thy page. 

But since more rugged paths are mine, 

I simply can express 
What friendship prompts— the wish that thine 

May all be happiness. , 

R G. H ^^?t-v^ 







^>(^-0B»-^ 



(103) 




FRIENDLY INVOCATION. 

In 1854 I had the pleasure to meet in a friendly and familiar man- 
ner Sir Charles E. Gray, at that time, or just before, Governor of 
Jamaica. His contribution to my album is well worthy of being tran- 
scribed here, and is among the most prized of my " Leaves from the 
Past." 

HY namesake, when she wished her favorite 

child 
Should win a blessing from his aged sire, 
Gave him the vestments of a hunter wild, 
And veiled his dainty hands in rough attire. 

But thou, Rebecca, my unpolished line 

In this embellished volume wouldst enroll, 

And o'er its faults make richest beauty shine, — 
Enameled flowers, and gold, and tinted scroll.* 

Yet, if the wish sincere, — the friendly prayer, — 

Will not the less prevail, so let it be ; 
And may our Father give his heavenly care, 

And every choicest blessing, unto thee. 

Charles Edward Gray. 

Philadelphia, 21st June, 1854. 

* The cover of my album was inlaid with pearl, gold, and gay 
flowers. 

( 104) 



^^mMm 






TO MISS MARY REBECCA SMITH, 




OF PHILADELPHIA. 

I had a dream, but 'twas not a/I a dream." 

HERE was a car came sweeping by, 
Flashing its glories from on high ; 
Three forms it bore of gorgeousness : 
One, Juno, from her mien, I guess ; 
Pallas, the other, world-wide famed 
For wit ; the third was Venus named. 
Long worshiped in Idalia's bower, — 
The Queen of Love's and Beauty's power ! 
And onwards still the chariot strained, 
And, as it went, each presence waned. 
Until, ere in the viewless distance gone, 
The three were blended into one ; 
Until the eye, with wistful gaze 
Bent on the empyrean ways. 
Still lingering on the vanished three. 
Caught them embodied all in thee ! 

A 



Washington City, April 29th, 1859. 



D., 
of La. 



A NARRATIVE AND A MORAL. 

When James, the novehst, was in this country, I met him at the 
EngHsh consul's, in Philadelphia, He remarked I did not look like 
an American woman, and, questioning me as to my parentage, found 
I was a great-great-granddaughter of James Logan, whose ancestor, 
Sir Robert Logan, was so unfortunate and so famous in Scottish his- 
tory. Mr. James then told me he had the original papers proving the 
injustice of the confiscation of the estates of Sir Robert, owing to an 
alleged participation in the Gowrie conspiracy, and said to me, " If my 
hfe is spared, I intend to write the history of Sir Robert Logan, Laird 
of Restalrig, as he was called ;" and then wrote this impromptu, 
which he gave me as a souvenir. 




RUST not this empty world. // lies. 
Immortal truth, on this cold earth, it dies ; 
In Heaven it lives, and thence empowered 
it comes 
To rectify this world's imperfect dooms. 
Witness the name of Restalrig, who died 
Trusted, beloved, convicted, and belied. 

G. P. R. James. 

(io6) 




BEAUTIFUL WISH. 

This poem was written to me by a gifted young ofificer in our navy, 
whom I met in Washington in the winter of 1861, and whose talents 
and agreeable manners interested me very much. His musical powers 
were great,— as a pianist I have seldom heard a more brilliant and 
tasteful performer. One felt his music as one does his poetry. I left 
Washington suddenly, and did not see him for two years, when we 
met at a hotel, where he handed me the following very pretty verses. 

TO M. R. D. S. 




|ERE is the cold, gay world for me ; 
I am threading my way along. 
Here in my heart are my thoughts of thee, 
Shaping them into this song. 



In the forest wild, in the woodlands mild, 
By the bank of some beautiful stream, 
In the light of some heavenly dream. 

Where all is love, around, above. 
With a brilliant celestial light, 
Making stream and forest so bright, — 



( 107 ) 



lo8 . TO M. R, D. S. 

There should I plot a home for thee, 

With the crested robin and honey-bee ; 

With the sweet skylark and the pure-winged dove, 

Such should, indeed, be thy home of love. 

Where all is strife in this sad life, 

And hearts are wicked and sere. 

And love is blended with fear, — 
Why shouldst thou stay, when far away, 

The voices of nature ring 

With the songs that angels sing? 

There, — not here, is the home for thee, 

For thou seemest a child of nature to me ; 

With the moss beneath, and the stars above, 

Shouldst thou join with all nature in songs of love. 

So shaped my heart into words this song ; 
So seems the world with its varied throng ; 
And be our paths through sunshine or rain. 
Let us pray that in heaven we meet again. 

Philadelphia, 1863. 



^^ 



"COME WHOAM." 

One evening, in Providence, Mrs. S. H. W a lady of much 

poetic talent (her poetry had been published, and is well known), 
heard me recite a charming little poem in the Lancashire dialect, an 
appeal from a fond wife to her husband, who had gone to the ale- 
house to drink, — " Come Whoam to the Childer and Me," written by 
Waugh, who is called the Burns of Lancashire. I had told Mrs. W. 
that I was going to Europe in the Spring. We parted, — she walking 
home by moonlight. The next day L received a kind note, with a 
volume of her Poems, and the accompanying stanzas, — 

TO REBECCA. 



AST night, beneath a waning moon 
In dreams I seemed to roam ; 
A sweet voice murmuring by my side, 
Those gentle words, /' Come Home." 




And when, o'er far-off foreign seas, 
Through foreign lands you roam. 

My heart shall echo the sweet words 
I heard last night, " Come Home. 
January 28th, 1864. 



(109) 



A PICTURESQUE LETTER. 

Mrs. W and I met afterwards at the Ocean House, Cape 

Elizabeth, Maine, from whence she wrote the letter quoted below. 
Written by the " Helen" of Edgar Poe, and in itself racy and agree- 
able, and alluding again to me and the poem I had recited, its repro- 
duction here is interesting and not mal apropos. 




Ocean House, August 6th, 1864. 
HE event of the week with us has been a 
complimentary clam-bake given to Gen- 
erals Shepley and Franklin, at the ' Cape 
Lights,' by the crime de la creuie of Portland. We 
accepted an invitation from the British Consul, Mr. 
*^ ^-, , to drive over to the * bake' in an open car- 
riage. The sky was lowering, and a thunder-storm 
evidently waiting to overwhelm us. The ' Ocean 
House' dinner-bell was, moreover, ringing out its 
tempting * tintinnabulations' just as we drove from the 
door, suggestive of savory fish-chowders, roast lamb 
and peas, snow puddings, and blueberry pies. We had 
consented to the picnic under protest, and resigned 
ourselves to the consequences. The sky grew darker 
and darker as we drove over the hilly road towards the 
evergreen grove, where the clams were baking, and 
(no) 



A PICTURESQUE LETTER. m 

the feast appointed to be held. The nearer light- 
liouse, seen through an avenue of dark fir-trees, loomed 
up before us, white and ghastly, against a stormy back- 
ground of sea and sky, like a pallid ghost, warning us 
back from our path. We had scarcely reached the 
ground, when the lightning stabbed through and 
through the dark and ragged edges of the thunder- 
cloud, and the rain came down in torrents. The 
whole party, marshaled by the two generals, made, in 
military phrase, a ' masterly retreat' to the lighthouse 
kitchen. ' Supply trains' were soon brought up from 
the grove, and refreshments served in a somewhat 
promiscuous and irregular manner. We had the pleas- 
ure of an introduction to General Franklin, who told 
us the story of his recent capture and escape with a 
cool simplicity and a dash of quiet humor in his honest 
blue eyes, which made it sound like a page from Gil 
Bias, or a chapter from one of Charles Lever's racy 
romances. 

'* The excursionists ended their festivities by a dance 
and a supper at the Ocean House, and a seven-mile 
drive to Portland in the pouring rain. The next day 
the rain-storm put a stop to all our wonted out-door 
pleasures. In the evening the need of exercise led to 
the inauguration of blind-man's buff, fox and geese, 
magic music, and other games of fun and frolic. One 
of the forfeits, incurred by an accomplished lady from 



TI2 A PICTURESQUE LETTER. 

Philadelphia, who sometimes charms us with her reci- 
tations, was the recital of an exquisite poem, by 
Waugh, in the Lancashire dialect, — the artless appeal 
of a wife who had followed her husband to the ale- 
house to bid him ' Come Whoam to the Childer and 
Me.' The exquisite naivete and pathos of her ex- 
pression brought tears to many eyes. 

"The next morning, while the ocean was still 
surging and heaving with the proud passion of the 
spent storm, I went with this lady, who loves nature 
in her wildest moods, to the rocky headland that lies 
between the Ocean House and the Cape Lights, de- 
scending in a series of colossal stairways to the sea. 
The elixir of the air, and the exulting roar of the 
waters as they trampled the rocky terraces and broke 
in WiffTf foam-wreaths over the lofty bulwarks of High 
Head, made our hearts swell and our pulses beat in 
unison with the triumphant power and passion of the 
wave ; and we vainly tried to imagine the apocalyptic 
heaven, in which, we are told, ' there shall be no more 
sea.'" 

S. H. W. 



"^i 

3^; 



■<jY- 




^I9r 




Sent to and received by me in London. 

TO MISS SMITH, 



REQUESTING ME TO WRITE LINES ON HER NAME. 




F Cyclops lost an eye by chance 
Which he scanned beauty with, 
He'd stand like M T (empty) consonants 
Were i put out of Smith. 
A sightless wreck ! Smith's name no doubt 

Has tried my Smithery ; 
Though I've one i there hammered out, 

Still two starred eyes has she. 
My mind a fancy forge when lit 
By coal-black eyes that glow ; 
Venus bade me like Vulcan hit 

Smith — thine' s the flame — the blow. 

Epigram by Sir John E De B 

London, February, 1856. 




^dnJ 



( II5J 



CHRISTMAS SALUTATION. 

I received in Dublin, Christmas morning, 1865, whilst the guest of 

Mrs. P , the following note and poem from J . . . F 

W LL.D., one of the delightful poets of Ireland. 




HAPPY Christmas to you, dear Miss Smith ! 
May the sunshine in your heart to-day be 
brighter than that in the heavens, without 
cloud to dim, or mist to chill it, as we have here while 
I am writing. 

I return the charming lines of Bryant, which I have 
copied, and I send you a little Christmas greeting, 
which you will receive, more for its good intentions 
than its merits. 

I am to give a lecture on the Poets and Poetry of 
America, in Dublin, on the evening of the nth of 
January next, and you shall have full notice of the 
time and place. 

With kindest compliments to Mrs. P and her 

family, and wishing you all many happy returns of this 
festive season, 

Believe me, my dear Miss Smith, faithfully yours, 
J. . . F ^. W. . 



(116) 



/ \(XA^t>-^ 



\^r. 



A 




CHRISTMAS HYMN. ny 



CHRISTMAS HYMN. 

T. 

STOOD within the chancel dim 

When the morning light was breaking, 
And I heard the sound of the solemn hymn 
That the organ's breath was waking. 
And I thought of the olden holy time, 

When angels in the sky 
Sang, in a distant Orient clime, 
''Glory to God on High." 

II. 
The glorious breathings swept along 

Upon that Christmas morn, 
Through nave and aisle in jubilant song, 

As erst when Christ was born. 
And the white-robed choir took up the laud 

With holy minstrelsy : 
'Twas the hymn of the ancient church of God, 
"Glory to God on High!" 
Ave Jesu, Deus magne, 
Ave puer, mitis Agne, 
Ave Deus, Homo nate. 
In praesepi reclinate \ 

O Potestas, O Egestas, 
O Majestas Domini ! 



PLEASING RECOLLECTIONS. 




MET in Ireland a gentleman of much cultiva- 
tion and learning, — a retired physician, who, 
^ for many years past, has lived and traveled 



extensively over the continent of Europe with his only 
daughter, making marvelous tramps on foot with her, 
and residing chiefly in Italy in the winter. We met 
under very pleasant circumstances around the hospi- 
table hearth of a member of his family, with some of 
whom I had been on intimate terms. 

He came to see me one day, and left a volume 
called ''The Unripe Windfalls in Prose and Verse, 
by J ... . H . . , ., M.D. ;" and as we should give honor 
to whom honor is due, I may name that he is the 
author of ''Miscellaneous Poems," "Criticism on the 
Style of Lord Byron" in a letter to the Editor of 
Notes and Queries, "Specimen of Virgilian Com- 
mentaries," "Specimen of a new Metrical Translation 
of the Eneis." 

On a fly-leaf of the volume was this addi-ess : 
(ii8) 



ro MISS M. R. DARBY SMITH. 



119 




TO MISS M. R. DARBY SMITH. 

IINDFALLS although we be, 
Untimely from the tree 

Dropped to the ground, 
We're yet of generous kind, — 
Neither in pulp or rind 

Sour or unsound. 

Pass not, then, haughty by. 
Leaving us here to lie. 

Moulder and rot ; 
But gather, and in store 
Lay up on boarded floor 

Or dry-tiled flat, 

Where we may pass our time 
Secure from damp and rime. 

Until thou sigh 
For ample dumpling slice 
Or codling pasty nice, — 

When, lo ! we're nii;h. 



I20 TO MISS M. R. DARBY SMITH. 

To my windfalls, lady fair, — 

Unripe windfalls though they be,— 

Of thy notice deign some share, 
Of thy pity some to me, 

Who may not beyond the sill 
Th* intrusive gift accompany; 

Smile upon my windfalls still. 

Fairest lady, and on me. 

J.... H 
D . . - . Lodge. 




READY WELCOME. 

When in Dublin, staying with Mrs. P daughter of the late 

Admiral S one evening talking of leaving, a vv^itty dignitary of 

the Church of England, who was there, wrote this impromptu and 
handed it to me : 

WEET Transatlantic genius, pray 

For another fortnight stay; 

Your welcome is not yet worn out ; 
Full many a draught of Guinness' stout* 
You'll quaff beneath this friendly roof: 
For you our hearts are weary-proof. 




* Frequently used at lunch in Ireland. 




(121) 



IMPROMPTU, 

By the same facetious clergyman. Dublin, Saturday night, Decem- 
ber i6th, 1865. 




HEN Isaac Avent a courting sly, 
On a sweet maid he cast his eye ; 
But could he come back from the dead. 



You're tlie Rebecca he would wed ! 

Oh, "cunning Isaac," I am glad 
That your Rebecca you have had ; 
For most disastrous would it be 
Were my Rebecca snatched from me. 






(122) 



TIME DEFEATED. 

I left Dublin on the 5th of October, 1868, — my birthday was on the 
6th, — and I received in London, immediately on my arrival there, 
a letter containing the inclosed lines, from a gifted young friend, who 
was one of the most distinguished scholars of Trinity College, Dublin. 




MID the visions of the night 
I saw a spectre stand ; 
A scythe he bore so curved and bright, 
An hour-glass in his hand. 

White flowed his beard adown his breast, 

His robe trailed on the ground, 
And oft, as if with rage oppressed, 

He bit his lips and frowned. 

'' Old father Time, pray tell me why 

(For 'twas with him I spake) 
Thy brow is bent, and from thine eye 

^ Such angry flashes break.' " 

He paused, and answered, while he frowned, 

''All's subject to my sway ; 
Throughout the world naught can be found 

But I can bid decay. 

( 123 ) 



^J 



124 TIME DEFEATED. 

''Yet I have met a maiden bright, 
With a soft and winsome eye, 

Who does resist my strongest might, 
My utmost power defy. 

'' Her birthday 'tis. While other dames 

This day expect with fear, 
Still lovelier, brighter, she becomes. 

And younger every year." 

W. II. I 







VERSES 



Received in Rome from Ireland, during the winter of 1869. 




INCE thee I saw, a vision of love and light 
Floats in my soul, and trancing sweetness 



flings, 

Like spirit voices chaunting to golden strings. 
Heard often in the dreamland of the night. 

Thus rises, when the ever-gliding hours 

Lead o'er the earth the golden shimmering dawn, 
The perfume-breathing incense of the lawn, 

Enameled thick with myriad purple flowers. 

Thus art thou loved, yet pinest 'neath the hand 
Of sadness and the gloomy grasp of care; 
Lady, to feel thou art beloved as fair. 

Can this no stroke of sorrow e'en withstand? 



We met, and with ecstatic melody 

On fancy's ear love's glorious music stole, 

And woke its echoes slumbering deep. My soul 

From that bright moment centres all in thee. 

ii5^ (125) 






L I N >: s 

Sent to me for Christmas, when in Italv, from Ireland. 




HE flaky snow is falling slow 
On roof, and sward, and tree, 
With a gentle, dying motion, 
Like the sweet yet sad emotion 
Mingled with my thoughts of thee. 

II. 

Within, at the banquet, the voices resound. 
As the wine it is laughing and flaming around. 
The tables are groaning with viands untold. 
And the lamplight is flashing on crystal and gold, 
And fair ladies, with their beaming eyes so softly, 

brightly gleaming. 
Women — union of the real with the ideal, in their 
seeming — 
There are sitting; as the song. 
Now echoing loud and long, 
With its pleasant memories laden, 
Dies away, — all, man and maiden, 
{ 126) 



LINES. i; 

Quaff the pledge, the hours recall, 
While sounds throughout the hall 
The old salutation so cheer and so true, 
Fill goblet and beaker, — Bon noel a vous ! 

III. 
When rest my eyes upon thy place. 

Naught can my wandering soul detain ; 
It seeks in vain my love's lost face 

Amid the banquet pledge and strain. 
Nor wonder that it plunges not 

Into the deepening tides of glee, 
But, filled with longings ne'er forgot. 

It gladly, fondly, turns to thee. 
Then think the sweet spirit of song that flows 

Out from these lips of mine, 
Is hurrying free, o'er land and sea, 

To waft a kiss to thine. 

W. H. B. 




LAST WORDS. 

Received in Ireland when at Shangana Castle, just before I sailed for 
America, December, 1870. 




HEN the orb of day's arising, 
Gilding spire and tree, 
Woodland into song surprising, 
'Tis then I think of thee. 

Then the day-dreams o'er me stealing, 
Visions of the past revealing, 
Wake with each dearest feeling, 
'Tis then I think of thee. 

When the lamp of day's declining, 
When the moon is on the lea, 

When above the stars are shining, 
'Tis then I thhik of thee. 



Yes, though bounding waves dissever, 
And 'tis but ^fo?id endeavor, 
Sweet friend, with memories bright forever, 
'Tis then I'll think of thee. 

w. H. r> 

December, 1870. 
(128) 



'mm 


j^p^ v^i^^^lj^yB^^SH 


^Mm 





TO MISS M. R. DARBY SMITH. 



Written in my album, Florence, January 23d, 1869. by a distinguished 
sculptor. 

HERE the great of heart and mind 
Hath for thee the laurel twined, — 
Statesman, Sage, Divine, and Chief, 
Bard and Beauty, the refined, — 
I would bring one little leaf. 

J. T. H . . . 





( 129) 



TO MY FRIEND. 

Just before giving to the printer my reliquary, I received a touching 
letter from a gifted lady friend, with whom I have corresponded for 
year^ itJUthough she is my junior, I knew she had the gift of song^ 
and so I wrote and told her something of my plan, and asked for a 
few words from her pen to be placed in my goodly assemblage ; " but," I 
said, " you must be prompt if you accede to my wish ;" and so almost 
by return of mail came her sweet addition, which I gladly insert, for 
she is prized by me, as her merit commends, gentle and modest as she 
is gifted. She lives in a "blest retirement" at her father's beautiful 
residence on an arm of the sea, near Newport. There, holding com- 
munion with nature, lifted far above the worldling's pleasure, 

" With mind intent upon the visioned future bent," 

her tranquil life is passed. Often have I in former years been the 
guest of her kind parents ; and there, amid the romantic scenes and 

lovely shades of V I can well and truly quote the words of 

Lord Littleton : 

" There oft we used to walk, 
And there in tender talk 
We saw the summer sun go down the sky." 

These are the verses she sent me : 
(130) • 



V 



TO MY FKIEXD. 



TO MY FRIEND. 



13J 




HOU dost ask for a leaf as love's token ; 

Ah ! 'tis only a leaf! 
Of the flowers that spring in our pathway, 

The blooming is brief. 
Yet fain would I, faithful to friendship, 

The memory keep green, 
Through all changes of joy and of sorrow, 

Of days that have been ; 
When we walked in heart counsel together, 

On sweet themes intent, 
And your voice to the charm of the hour 

Its melody lent. 

In its infinite yearning and reaching 

Towards the Divine, 
I see in thy spirit the earnest 

Of joys shall be thine, 
When the heavenly Father shall call thee 

From darkness to light, 
With his blessing thy charity crowning, 

Thy sweet faith with sight ! 

G. M. H. 

V , February 25th, 1872. 

THE END. 



//'^ 



a)/f. 









^M^m 






LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




017 199 188 2 # 



